


you'll come undone

by PaperRevolution



Series: outer-space mover [11]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, and apparently Maglor has to fix everything, in which Fingon is really fucking sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 06:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12977790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: Space AU. Fingon finally attempts to speak to Maedhros about the events following his capture, with disastrous results.





	you'll come undone

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) Warning for mentions of sexual abuse. Not graphic, but discussed directly as opposed to implied.  
> 2.) Further warning for depiction of trauma-related mental health issues.

The combat simulation ends with a dull rush of static and he stumbles to a standstill, pulse pounding, heart hurling itself against his ribs onetwothreefourfivesixseven.

In the sudden darkness, tiny bursts of residual colour speckle before his eyes. He blinks furiously, reaching up to yank the simulation helmet off his head and letting it drop to the floor with a hollow thud. In the sudden brightness he blinks again, rapidly, pulling in deep, steadying breaths.

He’s fine in the moment; in the flurry of action. It’s afterwards that his skin prickles with unease, and tension lances through his back and shoulders.

“Can we talk?”

Maedhros whirls, still breathing hard, to face the speaker. It’s Fingon, standing back, close to the wall, looking up at the training platform. How long, Maedhros wonders, has he been standing there?

He crosses to the edge of the platform and sits, his long legs dangling over the side, feet just barely brushing the floor. Now that he’s stopped moving, his limbs feel leaden. Six relentless hours of replaying the same set of simulations over and over and over have left him exhausted.

“I’m sorry I’ve—” Fingon starts and then stops again. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around.”

Maedhros exhales. “You’ve been avoiding me.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound bitter, but it does nevertheless. “It’s fine. I get it.”

To his surprise, Fingon meets his eyes. “I didn’t know,” he says, with a halting tentativeness uncharacteristic of him. “I didn’t realise. And then, everything with Irissë—you were so—I should’ve thought. I shouldn’t have—”

Please don’t, Maedhros tries to say, but it comes out as a small, wordless sound—a stilted, stumbling cry.

Fingon stops talking abruptly, but his eyes stay trained on him. 

He swallows convulsively. “You didn’t know,” he makes himself say. Now that this moment is here, he feels he’d do anything to make it be over already. “There’s no way you could’ve known.”

“Maitimo,” says Fingon softly. And then, hurriedly: “Maedhros. Mae.”

He lets out a short, humourless laugh. “If you’re here because you feel sorry for me—”

Fingon’s eyes widen, but his voice, when he speaks, is steady.

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m here because I want to be. Because I need to talk to you. Because I care about you—”

Maedhros can’t help the short, derisive huff of air that escapes him, and the hurt that flashes across Fingon’s face is a sharp pull in his chest.

“I came for you!” Fingon blurts. “I risked everything for you when no one else would! When your own family—” He breaks off, his expression stricken.

And Maedhros feels his whole body stiffen. A cold weight settles in his stomach and his heart kicks into overdrive, thrumming wildly.

“You don’t have to tell me how it is,” he hears himself say. “You’re clearly the only person who gave a shit, and now I owe you. I’m never going to stop owing you.” He gets to his feet. “What am I supposed to do to repay you?” His voice cracks. He takes a step towards Fingon. “What do you want from me? D’you want me to tell you I’m yours to do whatever you want with? Do you want to fuck me? Well, lock the door. Why wait?”

Fingon’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly. There’s blank horror in his eyes.

“Mae,” he croaks. “That’s not—No. No. I don’t want anything from you. You don’t owe me anything. I promise you, you don’t owe me anything.”

But Maedhros laughs again. The sound is strangled and doesn’t sound like it belongs to him. “Maybe it could be a game,” he spits out, and he’s rage and revulsion and desperation and regret all coiled too tightly to keep from springing free now. “That’s what he used to call it. A game. Our little game. His favourite game.”

Fingon’s throat constricts visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Maedhros—”

“He liked to tell me I was his favourite,” Maedhros presses on, unable to stop himself now, the words tumbling out in a sickening, staccato rush. “His favourite because I was twisted and rotten and broken just like him. Because I was a disappointment, just like him. Because I’d do everything he wanted because I’d know, deep down, that I deserved it. He had this thing—he had this way about him where he could look right into you and see you more clearly than anyone else ever has and I—I wanted so badly to believe he was wrong because I’m a fucking coward and I couldn’t face it but—but people are dead because of me and—and I—and—I—don’t—”

Maedhros’ last shred of composure collapses, and he crumples, taking two halting steps backwards and dropping bonelessly back onto the edge of the training platform. His shoulders slump, shaking with deep, gut-wrenching sobs, and his head falls forward, hair hanging in his face. And he wants to shut his eyes tight, tight, to block everything out, but he’s afraid that if he does he’ll be right back there. With him. With Melkor.

With his face pressed into damp concrete and a warm weight on top of him, pushing him down, and then movement and then pain and and and—  
RottentwistedweakbrokenpatheticdisappointmentROTTENTWISTEDBROKENBROKENBROKEN—

*

Maglor is reading when the door to the room he now shares with Turgon crashes open. He startles, snapping the book shut and looking up sharply from the low, boxy seat in the corner which has become his habitual spot.

“You need to come,” says Fingon breathlessly. His eyes dart this way and that, frantic. “You need to—I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.”

Dropping the book immediately, Maglor stands. “What do you mean, you fucked up? What happened?” His stomach is already tying itself in knots. Dimly, it occurs to him that Fingon barely ever swears; a relic of Anairë’s parenting.

But Fingon only shakes his head. In all the years Maglor’s known him, he’s never seen him this way.

“Please,” is all he says, and turns to leave, glancing back to see whether Maglor is behind him.

Maglor, without further question, follows.

*

Maedhros is trembling.

He won’t stop. His breath comes in great, ragged gasps, fractured and uneven. His arms are limp at his sides, his head bent.

“He won’t let me near him,” Fingon says dully, watching Maglor cross the room to where his brother sits. His right eye and cheek still throb from the reflexive blow Maedhros had dealt him. There will be a bruise there tomorrow, but he deserves it.

Deserves it. The phrase sets his stomach churning again.

He watches as Maglor sits down slowly and carefully beside Maedhros; strains to listen as he starts up a murmured stream of reassurances, but Maglor’s voice is too quiet for him to hear from where he stands, just inside the doorway.

His mind is numb. The worst thing—the very worst thing—has happened.

When Maedhros looks at him, he sees a threat. A creature of coiled wanting. A monster.

Fingon backs silently out of the training room. Turning, he closes the door carefully behind him.

Exhaling shakily, he leans back against the closed door. Something inside him, quietly, shatters.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I intended this to be a reconciliation, but it turned out grim as fuck instead. Apologies, I guess.


End file.
